A Red, Red Rose
by Lythweird
Summary: When France begins having dreadful nightmares of that fateful day back in 1560, it's up to Scotland to make him feel better.  France/Scotland OC  fluff. Auld Alliance.


**Title:** A Red, Red Rose  
**Characters/Pairings:** France/Scotland(OC) + mention of England  
**Rating: **PG  
**Warning:** Fluff/sap, and lots of it. Some angst. Also some minor swearing on Scotland's behalf. That's pretty much a given though.  
**Summary:** When France begins having dreadful nightmares of that fateful day back in 1560, it's up to Scotland to make him feel better.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Axis Powers Hetalia or any of its characters, but Scotland (James MacDougall) belongs to _me (Allison-san on Deviantart) _only.

* * *

___It was busy in the crowded tavern located in the center of Scotland's proud capital of Edinburgh. There was a loud party sitting at another table laughing and struggling to even pass slurred strings of words to old folksongs of their bonnie country out of their mouths, an uproar of laughter being the result of one well and truly intoxicated gentleman stumbling on nothing. The faint smell of booze and smoke wafted around the small area in the dimly lit tavern, while a softer hum of chattering voices was ever so lightly present in the midst of the background. _L'Écosse…" The Frenchman spoke in a low voice towards the northern nation seated across the small table they were settled at in the darkened atmosphere of the tavern. "…you mean to tell me, that you 'ave allied yourself with Angleterre?" He asked, somewhat confused, and at the same time, hoping that the Scotsman's words had been nothing but a misunderstanding of his thick Scots tongue. He could hardly look at Scotland anymore as it was.

"_Aye." Scotland lowered his head, his red bangs barely brushing over the front of his green eyes, closely resembling that of his younger brother England's, and refusing to look into the stern blue eyes of the Frenchman in front of him._

"_But…why?" France croaked the words out in a forced whisper, his voice quivering slightly, almost as if he was unable to handle the reality of the spoken truth. "After all these years we 'ave spent fighting him? It 'as come to zis?" He could feel his face growing angrily red and heated._

_Averting his eyes to where they lingered on his half empty glass of whisky, Scotland quietly spoke. "I didnae have much of a choice in the matter, ye got tae understand. As much as I hate England's bloody guts, I had tae dae it. Ye must understand that, Francis."_

"_Tch." Fists quivering, he glared up at the Scotsman, "I cannot believe you…" His breathing had begun to come out in ragged breaths as his hands shook; out of frustration, shock, or anxiety, he could not comprehend the influx of feelings he felt. "'Ow could you do this to me, James?" He spat at the other nation and clenched his shaking fists. _

"_I'm sorry, France." The Scot spoke towards his greatest former ally, unable to form the right words to tell him. He was never good with confrontation, the last thing he wanted to be doing was talking about this; and being here, telling France of this face to face, it was almost too much for him to handle, but the French nation didn't care whether the Scottish nation was upset about bringing this up or not. He wanted to know the truth; he wanted the facts._

_The edges of France's vision were now blurred from the tiny droplets of tears forming at the edges of his blue eyes, one running freely down his cheek, leaving a stream of despair in its wake. "To think…it would all end with zis…" He looked away, his hand traveling towards the golden ring on his left ring finger. Gingerly sliding the eloquent piece of jewelry off of his delicate finger, he sat it softly in front of him on the wooden table. "I do not think we can continue this alliance,_ _Écosse." He closed his eyes, the full reality of the situation hitting him finally. "But…I guess I could not expect less of you, being the loyal pup you are. You could 'ave chosen to fight, but non, instead you choose to bow at the feet of the one you despise most." He glared bitterly at the Scot. "Disappointing", he uttered callously, words cold and frigid as ice._

_Standing abruptly, the Scotsman pounded his fist furiously onto the table, leaving a slight dint behind in the wood from the sheer force of his fist. "Ye think I'd willingly bow down tae the bloody bastard just like that?" The Scot's voice rose into an enraged shout. "Things didnae work oot the way I expected 'em tae, a'right?" He slowly lowered himself back into his chair and sighed deeply, taking one last swig of his glass of whisky until the deep amber hued liquor was gone._

"_Then I suppose this is where we will be parting ways…" France murmured, the faintest trace of hurt in his voice with an edge of bitterness .He was on the verge of losing his composure, but he stayed calm and kept his voice controlled. _

"_Aye, guess sae…" The Scot muttered, glaring down at his now empty glass of whisky. France gave one last look towards his former ally, a mix of a glare and yet the slightest hint of yearning lingering on the Scot's masculine features, and swept out of the tavern muttering various curses in French as Scotland ordered himself another glass of whisky, not batting another eyelid onto his former ally and lover._

"_Goodbye, Écosse…" The Frenchman whispered his unheard farewell into the wind as he continued walking, his cloak fluttering behind him in the wind as he strode on through the cloudy streets of Edinburgh. He needed to get away before he did something else he would truly come to regret._

_He walked off, reality not seeming so clear as it had once before, darkness slowly shrouding his train of thoughts until there was nothing…the nothingness consuming reality as he knew it. _

_Just who exactly was he? _

He awoke suddenly in a coat of sweat, quivering and gasping in his bed. Sitting up, he brushes his hair away from his face and lets out a deep sigh after catching his breath, muttering a silent "Mon Dieu" under his breath. The clarity, the detail, the way the voices had echoed undisturbed through the cold war, made those woes of the past seem all too familiar in. It had been that way for the poor Frenchman for several nights now as the lucid nightmares continued to plague his slumber.

The house was silent as his breathing calmed, save for the few distant rumbles of cars driving out in the street below his house. Outside his window, the Eiffel Tower glowed faintly but proudly in the distance from where his house stood.

"Another nightmare…" France murmurs to himself, wiping his brow of the sweat that had accumulated on his forehead. He turned to look at the clock next to his bed settled atop the nightstand, _3:00 A.M_., it read.

Sleep was out of the question, he had been unable to sleep successively since the sudden onslaught of these dreadful nightmares without being woken up within the middle of the night because of one. Every dream was the same, filled with those painful memories of that fateful night oh-so many centuries ago, the clarity of them almost as if it had happened yesterday. But why now? Centuries later, when he's happy and flourishing as one of the greatest countries in the world? He and Scotland had gotten over that years ago, they were just as good as they used to be, if not better. France could not bring himself to understand the reasoning of his inner mind.

Shrugging his thoughts off, he exhales and lays back once again, closing his heavy eyes with darkened lines tiredly. Composing himself and clearing the rest of his mind, he finally drifts once again into the peaceful realm of slumber.

"And sae there I am, on me twentieth glass o' whisky…"

Scotland was telling another one of his so called 'stories', which were obviously just a tad bit over-exaggerated. France knew that just as well as anyone else did, but he sat and listened half interested and half distantly in the Scot's tale as they waited for their lunch in the tiny, but fancy little café situated in the heart of France's beautiful capital, Paris.

It was no wonder why France prided himself so greatly in his capital, it was indeed one of the most splendid places in the world. The sun was set high and shining in the midday sky, its cheerful rays cast upon the upbeat city below. From where the two European nations sat under a small table with an umbrella shielding them from the sun, people in cars and on bicycles drove past, whilst others walked casually off to the sides of the street, some walking their small canine companions, a few talking with friends, while others chatted idly on their cell phones with shopping bags strung around their arms. The tantalizing scent of freshly baked pastries from the nearest bakery drifted around the area mixed in with the delicious smell of the exquisite food being cooked inside the café. It was indeed another day in Paris.

Scotland was reluctant as usual to have ventured out with France and dine at such a fancy little place. Obviously too expensive for his tastes, being the thrifty Scotsman he was. But he had eventually gave into the Frenchman's wishes after a few pleases, pouting lips, and bats of his feminine eyelashes. France seemingly had a way of getting whatever he wanted, and Scotland simply pampered him, something his brothers had always seemed to scold him for doing to the French nation.

"…an' just as I'm aboot tae finish it off, England jumps up, points 'is finger at me, an' challenges me to a drinkin' contest." He laughs, "An' obviously, he's pished as hell. I'm tryin' hard as hell not tae laugh my arse off. Sae I just decide tae gae along wi'—Hey, are ye even listenin' tae me, France?"

"Hm?" The Frenchman suddenly snaps out of his inner thoughts, staring at Scotland wide-eyed. "Do you need something, _mon cher_?" He curses himself inwardly as he realizes that he had drifted off again, his thoughts obviously lingering on the memory of last night's nightmare.

Scotland immediately frowns, obvious concern showing on his rather masculine features. "Are ye alright, Francis?" He furrows his eyebrows, "Ye've been actin' a wee bit distant lately, almost like ye're distracted with somethin'."

France shakes his head slightly, smiling faintly, "Ah, as observant as ever I see." He rests his chin on his hand and takes a sip of his wine with the other. Taking a deep breath, he exhales and closes his eyes for a moment. "Well if you must know, _mon coeur,_ there has been something bothering me as of late…"

"Aye, an'—"

"Excusez moi, _messieurs. _Your food is ready." Scotland was interrupted by their waiter who had now returned with their meal, who was now placing down their respective plates of food in front of them.

"Ah, _merci beaucoup_." France smiled at him appreciatively.

"Is there anything else I can get you? Or will that be all?" the waiter asks politely.

"Nah, we're guid, thanks though." Scotland replied, dismissing the waiter.

Taking a bite into his meal, Scotland continued from where he left off. "As I was sayin' afore. Whit dae ye mean by 'somethin's been botherin' ye?'"

"Well, lately…I 'ave been 'aving dreams, of sorts."

"Hm, dreams?" The Scot said, taking a swig of his glass filled with ruby red wine while gazing at the Frenchman questioningly.

"Well, not just dreams you see…nightmares." France pauses a second to play around in his salad with his fork. "Nightmares… about that evening in the pub when our alliance 'ad been called off. 1560, I do believe it was." He sighs slightly at the memory, taking a bite of his salad.

"Och…I see." Suddenly, the Scottish nation began to feel uncomfortable, he shifts awkwardly in his chair and bites his lip. He was never good at talking about their problems, especially about _that _day centuries ago. He was used to just shaking off those thoughts and not asking a thing about them, it was best not talking about them anyway, at least that's what he personally believed. He was a good listener, as well as a pleasant talker, but Scotland didn't really think giving advice to others about complications was his forte.

"I 'ave not been able to get a good night's rest in ages. _Mon cher_, it is killing me." He frowns. "Those memories relentlessly plague my dreams, night after night, and I cannot shake them off just like zat." The French nation takes a hand and runs it slowly through his beautiful kempt golden hair. "It terrifies me…" he lowers his voice barely audible above a whisper, "…and I do not know what to do about them."

Forcing a smile, eyebrows furrowed slightly, Scotland extends his hand across the table and rests it over France's, "I'm sure it's nothin' really." He caresses the Frenchman's hand lovingly with his thumb, "They won't bother ye again, love." "Things aren't like that anymore. That was centuries ago, Francis, we've moved on since then an' now we're goin' steady again. We've changed, right?" He smiles reassuringly and leans over the table to press his lips against France's forehead, "I promise ye those bloody dreams will nae bother ye anymore, or sae 'elp me I'll come o'er there meself to make things better for ye."

"Ah, _cher."_ France sighs peacefully and smiles delicately at the redheaded nation, placing his other hand atop the Scot's. "Per'aps you are right. Thank you, James." He kisses his Scottish lover's cheek gingerly.

"O'course, France." Scotland grins widely. "By the way, yer food's gettin' cold." He laughs heartily. France couldn't help but smile and let out a light chuckle in response at his freckled partner as they both began to finish off the rest of their lunch in peace, enjoying one another's company without further disturbance.

_France couldn't get to sleep. _

It seemed as if every time he shut his eyes, the images of the nightmares would taunt him endlessly in his thoughts. It would seem that he was going to go another night without a proper night's sleep. He sighs to himself and sits up in his bed, turning on the lamp settled on his nightstand, its light casting heavy shadows against the professionally painted walls. A few pieces of fine furniture lay parallel to the walls; the velvet cushioning of the couch adjacent to his bed appeared to shimmer with the soft light of the lamp, while a vanity mirror reflected the image of the elegant Frenchman across his room where he sat upright on his king sized bed.

Remembering what Scotland had told him at lunch, France carefully reaches out towards the nightstand next to his bed and takes the phone out if it's eloquent receiver by the lamp and begins to dial Scotland's number. He waits for a second, and after a few rings, the line on the other end is finally picked up.

"'Llo?" The groggy voice on the other end greets tiredly.

"Écosse…" He trails off.

"France?" The voice perks up in an instant somewhat anxiously. "Ye okay?"

"I-I…I cannot sleep." He lets out an exasperated sigh. "Every time I close my eyes, I cannot 'elp but picture those nightmares. They will be the death of me, _amour._" France sighs once again and rubs at his temple with his free hand, his eyes dropping tiredly.

"Just hold on a few, I'll be there as soon as I can." Scotland replies.

"_Non_, wait, you don't 'ave to—"

It was too late, Scotland had already hung up the line. France sighed yet again. He didn't intend on making Scotland travel all the way over to Paris once again just to deal with France's bad dreams. But knowing how hardheaded the northern nation was, his protests would be completely futile. Once the Scot's mind was made, there was no changing it.

Minutes later, a soft knock is raps on his front door. France gets up and heads towards it. "_Mon Dieu, _that was quick.", France says softly to himself and goes to answer the front door. Opening it, he is greeted by the Scottish nation, grinning like an idiot down at the smaller Frenchman. "Told ye I'd come." He leans down to quickly peck the Frenchman on the lips.

"You did not 'ave to, _cher_…" He trails off.

"Ach, nonsense. I told ye I'd be o'er here if ye were havin' any problems at lunch. I dinnae go back on me word so quickly."

France chuckles softly. "Ah, I know that quite well." He smiles tiredly up at him. "_Merci _for coming anyway, _Écosse_."

"Nae problem, love." He smiles for a second and then looks worriedly down at France as he notices how fatigued the French nation appeared, from the dark lines below his eyes, to the ragged appearance his normally well groomed, glossy hair appeared. "Goodness, France, ye look bloody exhausted!" He brushes a lose strand of hair out of the blonde's hair and holds the side of his face gently with one hand. "Ye weren't lyin' when ye said ye haven't had a proper nicht's sleep…" He frowns, a look of concern crossing his expression. "Ye should really be getting tae bed, Francis…"

"And you should stop worrying so much about me, _cher._" As much as he probably wouldn't admit it, France loved how Scotland constantly worried over and pampered him. Scotland had been that way for as long as he could remember, treating the blonde nation like a delicate work of art, every touch and gesture towards him were so gentle and soft, as if the blue-eyed man could break at any given moment. He honestly enjoyed every second of it, and it was true, Scotland truly spoiled him. France would not deny those facts.

"Aff tae wi' ye now, lad." Scotland says as he places his hands on France's shoulders and begins to lead France carefully back towards the blonde's bedroom.

"Ah but _cher_, since you came all zis way, mayb—"

"That's enough from ye now." The Scot interrupts and guides him backward into the bedroom.

"But—"

Scotland presses a finger to France's lips as he sits France down lightly on the bed. "No more o' that now. Time for ye tae get tae sleep, _a chuilein_."

France looks away slightly and closes his eyes. "As I 'ave said previously, I cannot sleep, _mon coeur._ What part of zat do you not understand?"

Scotland seats himself on the bed next to the French nation and allows him to lean his head on the Scot's broad shoulders. "I've been thinkin'…I dinnae ken why ye've been havin' all these dreams all o' a sudden. It doesnae make much sense if ye ask me, really." He scratches the back of his head in thought. "That was centuries ago, but, I'm sure ye ken that just as well as I dae." He wraps an arm securely around France's waist.

"That is exactly what am I wondering." France responds quietly. "But they are just so…so real. They all feel as if it 'ad 'appened a day ago when I dream of zat day." He turns his head away, staring out the window into the unfathomable darkness outside. "Why did it 'ave to end zat way?"

"Heh ye should ken…I drank meself silly that day. After ye left, I thought I'd go bonkers. I stayed at that pub an' drank 'till I couldnae remember even me own name anymore." He chuckles lightly to himself, and reaches into his pocket. "Ye ken, all these years…" He pulls out two golden rings from his pocket, the honey colour of the metal glowing in the faint light of the lamp situated on the nightstand. "I kept these with me safe n' sound."

France turns his head back to stare at Scotland, somewhat dumbfounded at the Scottish nation, and his expression full of confusion as he looks at the twin flaxen bands. "Y-you kept those? B-but…that was centuries ago! I did not think you would kept yours, let alone mine as well." He turns his head away again, his face flushing scarlet ever so slightly.

"Why wouldn't I?" Scotland presses. "We might have separated on a rather sour note, but we got o'er it after a while. We were still friends back then, nothin' changed." He sighs softly. "I kept these because they reminded me o' the time we were together, an' they still do. Bonnie memories they were…how could I ever forget though, aboot us?" He smiles warmly down at France.

France looks back at the Scottish nation, furrowing his eyebrows and smiling faintly. "James, thank you…"

"But Francis, listen to me, ye have nothin' tae worry aboot. We're not like that anymore."

"Then what are we?"

"Better than that, I ken for sure." Scotland grins confidently.

"Hmm, I suppose so." France says quietly. "_Mays, _you know…the thought recently occurred to me…that I 'ad never apologized to you for that night." He turns his head to look up into the Scot's bold green eyes. "But, never, ever once, did I stop loving you, _mon amour._ And it will always be that way. Because, you and I, it will not change." He leans forward, resting his forehead on Scotland's. "I want to tell you now that I am sorry, even if it is too late…it was not right of me." His face flushes redder, he wasn't used to having to apologize for things like this, especially compared to the dozens of times that Scotland had apologized to France for so many trivial reasons. It was almost pathetic in a way.

"_Je'taime_, _Écosse, Je'taime_. Forever and always." He whispers lovingly to the redhead and caresses the side of his face adoringly, looking into the Scottish man's warm green eyes.

"Francis…" Scotland entwines his fingers with his lover's, gazing at the man he had fallen in love with so many centuries ago. "There was never a need tae say sorry, I knew ye already meant it lang ago. I love ye too, _a ghrá_." He says as France closes his eyes and tilts his head up, his lips meeting with the northern nation's as they both share a tender and affectionate kiss. Moving his hands up, Scotland cups France's face with either of his hands and returns the kiss somewhat ardently, deepening the kiss further. After a few more moments of heated lip contact, the two pull back breathlessly, but leave their foreheads intact.

After catching his breath, Scotland chuckles lightly. "Well then, are ye ready tae sleep now, _mo chridhe_?" The Scot smiles tenderly at his partner and wraps his strong arms gently around the Frenchman, kissing his cheek affectionately.

"_Oui_, I think so…" France lies back with the redheaded nation, resting his head on the Scottish man's chest, taking the Scot's larger hand into his own. "I think so…" He repeats contently as the two nations eventually fall into the deep spell of sleep, their dreams filled not with nightmarish memories, but replaced by the void of pleasant memories they had shared long, long ago.

_O my Love's like a red, red rose  
That's newly sprung in June;  
O my Love's like the melodies  
That's sweetly play's in tune._

_As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,  
So deep in love am I:  
And I will love thee still, my dear,  
Till a' the seas gang dry:_

_Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,  
And the rocks melt wi' the sun:  
I will love thee still, my dear,  
While the sands o' life shall run._

_And fare thee weal, my only Love  
And fare thee weal, a while!  
And I will come again, my Love,  
Tho' it were ten thousand mile._

_

* * *

_

**Translations:**

****

_Mon cher, mon amour, mon couer_ = French for my dear, my love, my heart

_Écosse_ = Scotland in French

_Je t'aime_ = 'I love you' in French

_Oui, non_ = yes, no in French

_Ken_ = Scots for "know"

_Mo chridhe, a ghrá, a chuilein_ = Scottish Gaelic for my heart, love, dear


End file.
